


His avowed duty

by quirkyspirit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 18:19:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9915152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirkyspirit/pseuds/quirkyspirit
Summary: I wrote this a while back - based on His Last Vow.  There was so much going on in that scene on the veranda with CAM, it was interesting to envision it through Sherlock's eyes, especially after the other events in S3.  See what you think.





	

As I stepped out onto the veranda I was still analyzing my possible courses of action. John had just asked me whether we had a plan, but it had taken me a moment to recover from Magnussen’s revelations. I knew then that my previous plan was rubbish and that once again I had led John on an ill-advised campaign, one likely to end badly. I knew equally well that he was now counting on me to get us clear. Then I heard Magnussen’s taunt. “I just love your little soldier face. I’d like to punch it. Bring it over here a minute.”

Things became quite still.  I was aware of the increased pulse pounding in my ears. I was approximately 85% certain that John would not simply draw his gun and shoot the bastard, despite the rage and incredulity he was clearly repressing. I am, after all, the ranking officer in our little army of two and I trusted him to await my order.

At that moment my duty became absolutely clear, and it was a duty dictated by my vow.  After many years of observation I am aware that most people consider their vows to be a matter of convenience. Marriages, legal contracts, financial obligations: the moment a vow becomes inconvenient, it is rescinded and just as soon forgotten. This has never been the case for me, however, which is why I was careful to avoid any and all oaths that would tie me to a course of action or allegiance that I would come to regret further down the road.

So when I made my solemn vow to John and Mary on the day of their wedding, it was not an act of impulse or one that was taken lightly. I’d had, at that point, plenty of solitary moments to consider the problem of John: since my return he’d been reticent with me in a way that I had never seen previously, and I wondered what it would require to restore that stubborn soldier’s faith in me.  I had initially attempted to avoid the kind of mawkish reunion that I figured he would despise, but my attempts at humor only served to enrage him. The more enraged he became, the less I was able to find a tone that would draw him back again, back to our comradery and to our own unspoken contract that began on the night of the cabbie when he showed me what he was made of. And he was made of impressive stuff indeed. He was worth the vow I gave them on their wedding day, and that vow did as it was intended: it gave him back the trust that I had shattered and sorely missed upon my return. John was again ready to join me in the game. And now it was my duty to justify his decision.

So here we are, on the veranda, and even now his capacity for loyalty astounds me, as ill-advised as the objects of his loyalty tend to be.  As we stand on the brink, staring down Magnussen in front of the massive house, (that monstrous tribute to the rewards of corruption) John stands steady. “Come on, for Mary. Bring me your face,” are the chilling words and John looks to me for instruction. At my nod, loyal soldier that he is, he walks forward, his face frozen in a stoic mask. Magnussen leans toward him, a cobra at the ready. He was intrigued by John, I’ll grant him that, had recognized the hot core beneath the bland exterior, and had begun baiting him soon after our entrance into the sterile, overblown interior of his lair.

“Lean forward a bit and stick your face out.” Spoken in that revolting, quiet tone that fails to hide the sadist’s glee.  John stands his ground as Magnussen hisses “I want to flick your face.” He manages to hold steady as the bastard snaps him sharply in the face, chuckling at his power to humiliate and hurt in any way he chooses.  Magnussen favors me with a meaningful look, enjoying his ability to exploit John’s shining loyalty in order to humiliate me as well. I feel the veins in my temples pulsing and I find myself looking down, not wanting to expose John to even my gaze in his predicament.

He continues to taunt John. “It works like this, John. I know  who Mary hurt and killed. I know where to find people who hate her.” He is snapping sharp fingers in John’s face, speaking to him as if he were an idiot child, telling him how he can tear his whole life down. I feel my very core humming in rage. My course of action is absolutely clear to me, but I must finish my analysis of the variables at play in order to minimize the direct risk to John. I must choose my moment properly, and not get caught flat-footed as I had stupidly allowed to happen already once this day. 

Magnussen continues his chilling litany of threats. “This is what I do to people. This is what I do to whole countries.” John is barely holding steady and Magnussen knows it. He ups the pressure: “Can I do your eye now? See if you can keep it open... come on, for Mary, see if you can keep it open...” and the bastard laughs softly. He’s having a glorious bit of fun. John breaks his silence just once, entreating me. And I do what I must. I tell John to let him... just let him. 

I dare not take action until the helicopters arrive, when the presence of those witnesses will prevent Magnussen’s bodyguards (oh, they are here somewhere) from killing both John and myself. Furthermore, should the gun be traced back to John (unlikely), those same witnesses will testify just who it was that pulled the trigger. Magnussen’s hubris has left me an opening to fulfill my vow. He actually believes those words that he threw at us in the Baker Street flat. He has become cocky, despite his cool. He right now believes he is dealing with a “domesticated” British toff.

John’s gun is in his left coat pocket. I can see its telltale outline. I know where I must be standing to minimize his risk from those troops that are now moving into place. I step forward to wish Magnussen a Merry Christmas.


End file.
